Frat Boys Pay A Heavy Price For ‘Belonging’

POP CULTURE

Frat Boys Pay A Heavy Price For ‘Belonging’

By Travis Bland

‘POLY FRESHMAN DIES AFTER FRAT EVENT,’ states the headline in muted flat font. This was the perfect type for a story like this. Black, boring, unassuming, all matter-of-fact.

I’ve only been in college for a year and a half, yet I’ve already become somewhat numb to these stories. They don’t have much punch left. No shock anymore. They jump at you like some toothless old shepherd gnawing on your pant leg — you shake it off with a, “Eh, who cares?”

The fraternity scene has always perplexed me. I’ve never been into the popped collar look and I can’t grow a respectable goatee (bro-tee), so I’ve never even considered joining one. But from what I hear, it’s not all that fun.

Honestly, they sound like vaguely homoerotic summer camps. Everything I have heard from pledging frat brothers goes along the lines of doing embarrassing, degrading things while invariably being in the nude. “Bro, it sucked! They made me denounce my parents, drink a fifth of rum, light my hair on fire and do the chicken-dance…BAREASSED!”

All for what? Brotherhood? Friendship? Even if you don’t die in a haze of alcohol-induced debauchery, is the camaraderie really worth your dignity? Do you really want to be hanging out with these guys? In most cases, the answer seems to be yes.

Seems like frats take down more young adults than the fucking mob each year. I’m not saying that they should be banned; I don’t think the makers of those pink polo shirts could take the hit. And besides, I need somebody to make fun of on Saturday nights too. But there needs to be accountability.

There’s a large amount of apathy among college students on frat pratfalls. Many students’ arguments sound like they are in denial about the whole situation — “He didn’t have to drink”, “I would have done differently,” blah, blah, blah. Spare me.

People love to be loved. Think about it — if you’re this kid, 18 years old, brand new to San Luis Obispo, zero friends and trying to make a good impression, are you really going to tell these guys, “Uh…you know fellas, I think I’m gonna call it a night?”

We already know the answer.

Travis Bland is a freelance reporter and literary delinquent living on California’s Central Coast. He currently resides in a tin shack, sustaining himself on a healthy diet of sourdough bread crust, Wild Turkey, and Jack Cafferty blog posts. You can reach him at trbland@gmail.com.